


Who Brings a Scalpel to a Gunfight?

by RizaHawkeyePierce



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RizaHawkeyePierce/pseuds/RizaHawkeyePierce
Summary: BJ can't sleep - a sense of dread is overpowering him. A new load of wounded are brought in, and one of them is determined to do some harm...
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt & Father Francis Mulcahy, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

BJ was lying in his cot just after dawn, idly flipping through the mystery novel he’d read at least five times. When he’d first found it tucked in a box of blankets, he and Hawkeye had bet each other they could guess who the murderer was halfway through. They were both wrong - it hadn’t been the beleaguered housemaid or the disowned brother, it was the Earl of Richport because the victim had stolen his best shoes.

Upon recalling this, BJ tossed the book aside and lay staring at the canvas above his head. Hawkeye and Charles were still asleep, but BJ had woken up an hour ago with his heart pounding and a feeling of dread that he couldn’t quite shake. The feeling still gnawed at him even though he knew there was nothing...nothing in particular, anyway; nothing out of the ordinary...to be afraid of.

He tapped his fingers against his leg, thinking about waking up Hawkeye for company. Or even Charles. Surely the feeling that was pressing like a dead weight on his chest would go away if he had someone to talk to.

He looked over at Hawkeye, who had kicked off his covers as he slept. He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of his cot. Charles, opposite, was sleeping in the slightly unnerving posture he sometimes had - flat on his back, hands folded on his chest, as though he’d been posed that way for his funeral.

BJ couldn’t wake them, especially for something as trivial as this irrational feeling. Who knew how long they’d be able to sleep?

His gaze drifted around the tent as he rubbed his thumb against the opposite palm, trying to calm himself. His eyes latched onto the still.

No...even here, even in Korea, even in the middle of a war zone, cleaning his teeth with a swig of gin first thing in the morning seemed like slipping a notch down toward becoming a full-time drunk.

He turned his head to the right, to the pile of letters from Peg stacked beside his bed. He pulled the top one from the pile, but he’d read all her letters so many times it felt like he’d siphoned all the comfort he could from them, and his eyes skimmed the words written in his wife’s handwriting without taking in the meaning. He tossed the letter aside.

Feeling increasingly restless, he got up, deciding he might as well take advantage of the early hour and enjoy a hot shower. He fished his robe and shower shoes from under his cot, stole a bar of Hawkeye’s soap, and left the tent as quietly as he could.

Though it looked to be one of the few truly nice days he’d seen so far, and though he was glad they’d passed through the hottest part of summer, the quiet of the camp at this hour did nothing to ease the aching feeling in his chest - he didn’t even see a guard on duty, and the silence was eerie. BJ strode to the showers quickly, trying to shake the feeling that he was the only one left alive here.

_Why do I keep thinking of death this morning?_

He hung up his robe and stepped into the first stall, pulling the chain to start the shower. Hot water sprayed from the showerhead and he turned, warming his shoulders and back, allowing his skin to redden from the heat - he’d always loved his showers hot, almost painful. He stuck his face in the spray, wetting his hair, thinking that if he were to drown, if the water were this temperature, it might not be so bad.

A loud _crack_ made him duck instinctively, wondering if there was a new sniper around camp, but when he wiped the water from his eyes, he realized it was just the door clattering closed after Father Mulcahey.

“Sorry to startle you, BJ,” he said, hanging up his robe next to BJ’s and stepping into the next stall.

“That’s all right, Father,” said BJ, waiting for his heartbeat to settle once more. “I’m jumpy today, I guess.” He grabbed his soap and started lathering his chest. “You’re up early today,” he said.

“To be honest, I woke up some time ago with a sense of...terrible dread,” said Father Mulcahey, removing his glasses and pulling the chain to start the shower. “I’m not sure what caused it, but I thought a hot shower might help.” He looked over and noticed BJ staring at him. “What is it, BJ?”

“...I woke up with that same feeling,” BJ said, fear fluttering underneath his ribcage. It was silly, obviously, but hearing Father Mulcahey repeat his own feelings back to him made them seem a lot more justified.

“Oh, dear,” said Father Mulcahey. “Perhaps I should bless you, just in case?”

BJ hesitated. His attitude toward God shifted wildly from day to day over here. Some days he was angry, questioning how a supposedly loving God could allow these things to happen, but sometimes, when he’d done all he could do in surgery, the thought of God was comforting - someone in control of all this madness, someone he could share his problems with, even if it was just in his thoughts.

He was on the point of accepting - it’s not as though it could hurt, right? - when they heard Radar’s bleary shout across the compound.

“Choppers, incoming! We got wounded!”

“I’ll take a rain check on that blessing, Father,” said BJ, quickly rinsing off the soap suds, yanking the chain to stop the spray, and seizing his bathrobe.

“I’ll say a prayer as we go, anyway,” said Father Mulcahey, slipping his glasses back on and hurrying around to grab his robe as well.

As BJ jogged past the Swamp on the way up to the chopper pad, he met Hawkeye and Charles stumbling sleepily out the door.

“There you are,” said Hawkeye, falling in beside him as they ran. “What’s the matter, couldn’t sleep?”

“Tell you about it later,” said BJ as they reached the hill - running uphill never left much breath for talking.

The next few minutes were controlled chaos, as always. BJ settled into a rhythm, taking stock of each wounded man (or boy, or unlucky Korean civilian), giving a smile and a pat on the shoulder if they were conscious, checking their breathing, pulse, and pupils if they weren’t. They rode the Jeeps back down to the compound with the wounded, arriving just as a bus and two more Jeeps pulled up, all loaded with still more wounded. Hawkeye jumped off the jeep he was riding and ran up inside the bus, where Charles had already started triage, leaving BJ to look at the ones carried in on the Jeeps.

The first Jeep wasn’t too bad - one dislocated knee, a broken arm, and a few lacerations. All of them could wait. He moved on to the next Jeep, which carried an American with a broken leg as well as a couple North Koreans. He directed the driver to help the American inside, then looked at the other two passengers. The first had a nasty head wound - he was still breathing, but one of his pupils was much larger than the other; never a good sign. He ordered a couple corpsmen to take the patient inside and prep him for surgery immediately, and he turned to the other man.

This one was conscious, obviously terrified - a sheen of sweat covered his face and his eyes were darting around, trying to see what everyone around them was doing.

“I don’t suppose you speak English,” said BJ, looking under the bandage tied to the man’s abdomen.

The soldier responded in Korean, sounding angry.

“Well, you’d think as the ones coming to the country, we’d learn to speak the language,” said BJ. “Unfortunately, speaking Korean might be a sign of Communist tendencies--”

He stopped talking abruptly as his patient made a sudden movement. He’d been so focused on the man’s wounds, he hadn’t noticed what his hands were doing, but suddenly this man had pulled a pistol from his pocket and shoved it in BJ’s face.

BJ stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity, his mouth open, staring down the barrel of the gun. A whine of panic like an air-raid siren started up in his head, and all he could think of was the order in which the bullet would penetrate his skull - first the frontal bone, then the frontal lobe of the cerebrum, possibly the brain stem with its tiny, delicate, but vitally important parts, then the parietal, then the occipital, and out the back through the occipital bone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father Mulcahey rushing toward them as the soldier struggled to cock the pistol. BJ still stood paralyzed as he managed it, said something in Korean, and pointed the gun directly (if shakily) at BJ’s face, just as Father Mulcahey leaped onto the hood of the Jeep, reaching for the man’s arm…


	2. Chapter 2

When the shot rang out, Hawkeye’s legs threw him to the floor of the bus without bothering to consult the rest of his body first, and he banged his elbow on something on the way down. He lay, holding his throbbing arm, listening for another shot. There were a few screams and the sound of running feet from outside the bus, but everyone had gone quiet inside, even the wounded.

“Sniper?” Charles whispered. He was also lying on the bus floor, his head a foot or two from Hawkeye’s.

Hawkeye tried to think above the deafening beating of his own heart. “No…” he said, shaking his head. “Sounded closer.”

“Hey,” hissed a man lying next to the back windows (a boy, really - every day they looked younger and younger), “Is that your priest fighting with one of the Commies we took prisoner?”

Hawkeye crawled to the rear of the bus and poked his head up cautiously. His helmet was in the Swamp...somewhere (why did he never have it when he wanted it?), and he half-expected to feel a bullet tearing through his skull. Through the grimy window of the bus, he could make out Father Mulcahey wrestling with a wounded soldier in a North Korean uniform on the hood of a Jeep. He appeared to be kneeling on the man’s wrist, trying to twist something out of his hand while fending off blows from the man’s other hand. After a moment’s struggle, Father Mulcahey wrested the thing from the man’s hand and jumped off the Jeep.

“It’s all right, everyone,” he called, “I took the gun!” He waved the thing in the air, and Hawkeye saw that it was a pistol. Exhaling in relief, he called to Charles to finish up triage on the bus and rushed out the back door.

“Father, are you all right? Anyone hit?”

“I’m fine,” said the priest, handing the pistol off to a passing corpsman “but BJ--” he grabbed Hawkeye’s arm and pulled him along as Hawkeye felt a bucket of ice water crash over his insides.

BJ was standing a few steps back from the Jeep, his hand pressed against his belly just above the belt of his robe. He took his hand away, looking at his bloody palm, and Hawkeye saw a bloom of dark red spreading down the front of his robe.

“Beej!” shouted Hawkeye, shaking off Father Mulcahey and sprinting over to his friend. He ducked under one arm as BJ staggered, and Father Mulcahey took BJ’s other arm.

“Litter!” Hawkeye called. BJ’s knees buckled, and he and Father Mulcahey were now supporting most of BJ’s weight. “You’re gonna be okay, BJ, you hear me?” he said, trying to convince himself as much as BJ. His heart was beating a fast and merciless rhythm against his ribs. His hand against BJ’s back felt wet, and he ducked back out from under BJ’s arm for a moment, trying to support him with one hand under his armpit as he looked at the back of BJ’s robe. Another, larger, patch of blood was spreading down BJ’s back - the bullet had passed clean through him.

 _At least we won’t have to hunt for the bullet_ , Hawkeye thought, taking BJ’s arm across his shoulders once more.

People had started to realize what was happening and several of them rushed over to see if they could help.

“I’ll get gauze and bandages!” Kellye shouted, rushing off to the supply room.

“Doesn’t hurt as much as I would’ve thought,” said BJ, sounding dazed.

“That’s good,” said Hawkeye, even though he could think of half a dozen reasons why that _wouldn’t_ be good.

“Out of the way! Move!” came Klinger’s voice on the other side of the growing crowd. They parted, and he and Goldman hurried forward, carrying a stretcher, which they set on the ground.

“Lay him on his side,” Hawkeye ordered them, letting Klinger take his place at BJ’s side. Klinger and Goldman gently lowered BJ to the stretcher. They started to cut BJ’s robe away.

“Hey, that’s my favorite robe,” BJ complained feebly.

“I’ll buy you another one,” said Hawkeye, kneeling down by the head of the stretcher. He put his hand on BJ’s shoulder. “A really nice one from Tokyo.”

“You can’t buy your way into my pants, mister,” said BJ, a half-smile on his face.

Hawkeye laughed in spite of himself as Klinger spread a blanket across BJ’s legs and hips, and he moved to the side of the stretcher to look at the exit wound.

Kellye hurried back with an armful of bandages, gauze, surgical tape, and other supplies.

“Thanks, Kellye,” said Hawkeye. “Help me here.” She knelt next to him as he bent over BJ’s back and tore open a pack of gauze. “Sorry, Beej,” he said, and he started packing the wound with gauze.

BJ cried out, and Father Mulcahey quickly knelt opposite Hawkeye and Kellye and grabbed BJ’s hand.

“Baker, go get us some morphine!” Hawkeye shouted, and the watching nurse hurried off.

“I’m sorry, BJ,” said Father Mulcahey. “If I’d been faster, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you’d been slower,” said BJ, panting with pain and doing his best to stay still, “I’d have a--a hole in my head I don’t--don’t need.”

Hawkeye froze at this, images of BJ lying, dying or already dead from a shot to the head, flickered through his mind.

“Doctor?” said Kellye.

“Right,” he said, shaking his head to clear it and getting back to work.

Col. Potter and Margaret came bursting out of Pre-Op as Nurse Baker hurried back with a syringe of morphine.

“Why is half my blessed medical staff standing around gawking?” Col. Potter barked. “Let’s get to work, people!”

“Inexcusable!” said Margaret, looking from one nurse to the next, “You should all be dressed and ready in the OR by now!”

The crowd around BJ thinned as people ran inside to take their places.

“Get these people into Pre-Op!” Col. Potter shouted. “Pierce!”

Hawkeye glanced up as Col. Potter stormed toward him, then stepped over BJ and started to tend to the entry wound. Nurse Baker injected the morphine.

“Hunnicutt is on triage today, Pierce! Get your butt into OR!”

“Baker, Kellye, let’s go!”

Both of them seemed to realize what was happening at the same time, because they both stopped shouting, and Hawkeye heard Margaret gasp, then two pairs of footsteps hurting toward them.

“Sorry Colonel,” said BJ, relaxing as the morphine started to take effect, “I guess I’m in triage instead of on it.”

“Sorry, son, I didn’t know,” said Col. Potter, kneeling down next to Hawkeye and resting a hand gently on BJ’s head.

“How’s he doing?” Margaret asked Hawkeye.

“Losing a lot of blood, but the bullet missed his spine. I’ll know more once I get him into surgery.”

“Pierce,” said Col. Potter softly. “I need you in the OR.”

“I’m not done here,” said Hawkeye curtly, unwinding a pressure bandage.

“Pierce, we have twenty trained combat medics who can do what you’re doing right now, but none of them can perform surgery. I know you don’t want to leave him, but there are a bunch of boys who may not survive without you.”

Hawkeye exhaled sharply, clenching his fists, fury at the situation welling up inside him. He slammed his fist in the dirt next to his knee, the sting of grit on his knuckles a welcome distraction from his helplessness. “You’re right,” he said abruptly.

“‘Course I am,” said Col. Potter. He turned to the nearest corpsman. “Tie that pressure bandage around his wounds, and keep an eye on him - bump him up the list if he starts to get shocky.”

“Okay, Beej,” said Hawkeye, clasping BJ’s hand as the corpsman got to work, “I have a dance card with your name on it, and if you don’t show up at my table I’ll be very disappointed. Got that?”

“I’ll wear my best tux,” said BJ.

“Good,” said Hawkeye. He squeezed BJ’s hand, then let go. Col. Potter helped him to his feet. Father Mulcahey gripped BJ’s hand once more, Margaret laid her hand on his face, and both of them hurried inside.

“Get him inside and give him two units of B negative,” Hawkeye ordered Kellye, who nodded.

“Godspeed, son,” said Col. Potter, patting BJ’s shoulder, and he followed the others.

“See you,” said BJ to Hawkeye.

Hawkeye stared at him for a moment, trying not to think that this was the last time he might see BJ alive.

“See you,” he said, and he forced himself to turn away.

  
  


BJ watched them go, gritting his teeth to stop himself calling after them, _Please don’t go, don’t leave me here._ The morphine was clouding his thoughts, blunting the sharpness of the growing ache in his belly, and he knew that every other wounded person felt the same, but none of that stopped the dread of being alone.

_Should’ve let Father Mulcahey bless me..._

“It’ll be okay, sir,” said Klinger, appearing suddenly at the head of BJ’s stretcher in his outdated nurse’s uniform, and BJ felt himself hoisted into the air. “I’ve seen you surgeons patch up guys much worse off than you.”

“Thanks, Klinger,” said BJ. Something he’d wondered but never asked floated to the surface of his mind. “How do you keep your uniform so white?” he asked.

“Cold water and salt to get the bloodstains out, and then a lot of bleach.”

 _Maybe we should try that method on generals’ brains...get the bloody thoughts out of their heads and let us all go home,_ BJ thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawkeye’s nerves jangled as he made his way through Pre-Op toward the scrub room. Usually by now he’d have a rough idea of the type of session it’d be - the kind of cases he’d be expecting (though that was easily--and often--thrown on its head if more wounded arrived), but the contents of his brain felt jumbled and in disarray, and images of BJ flickered through his mind: BJ looking at his bloody palm in surprise, crying out in pain, bleeding out in Pre-Op before he got to Hawkeye’s table, bleeding out on Hawkeye’s table…

  
  


_Tommy said he heard the bullet--_

  
  


He felt someone watching him and looked around to see the North Korean staring at him as a nurse attached an IV to his arm. Rage, swimming around under the terror he felt, thrashed its way to the surface.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

Everyone in the room froze and turned to look at him. The North Korean said nothing, just continued to stare.

“ _I said, what the hell are you looking at?”_ he shouted. He wasn’t aware of making the decision to walk toward this man who was lying on the bed, staring dumbly at him, but he found himself standing over him, staring into those blank dark eyes.

“Do you know what you did?” he asked him. “You took a doctor and turned him into a patient. You took a man just trying to help you, and you tried to kill him, didn’t you? Didn’t you? And for what? For a medal? A stupid shiny piece of tin to pin on your chest? For glory? I’ll tell you, that guy you shot? He deserves more medals than anyone here, because all he does is try to help people. Doesn’t matter who they are or what the problem is - if he sees someone has a problem, he tries to fix it. But we don’t give medals for that, do we? Save a hundred lives and, well, you’re just doing your job, but destroy a hundred and they hold a ceremony! But you tried to take away one of the few people in this whole mess who’s trying to fix something instead of breaking it further, you--”

His rage choked him. His normal flippant ease with words, spouting off his tongue so fast they left scorch marks, was gone. The valve that kept everything from getting wound up too tight inside him was blocked and, somewhere underneath the layer of fury and terror that made up most of who he was right now, he was surprised when he seized this man’s collar and hoisted him halfway to a sitting position (and still the man didn’t struggle or say anything).

Hawkeye stood, holding this man by the collar, for what seemed like an hour before he felt a hand seize his free hand roughly and force it up behind his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Let him go, Hawkeye,” said Father Mulcahey.

Hawkeye did so, half out of surprise, and Father Mulcahey towed him out to the hallway before releasing him.

“Is that how you intend to help BJ?” said Father Mulcahey, shaking with rage. “By manhandling an injured man?”

“He was the one that--”

“I’m aware of what he did! I saw it happen! But it was the action of a frightened and desperate man. And even if he truly desired to harm BJ, what good would come of harming him in turn? Would it bring you satisfaction to know you broke the oath you swore when you became a doctor for such a pointless reason?”

Hawkeye looked at the floor rather than meet Father Mulcahey’s gaze. “You priests really take the ‘turn the other cheek’ thing seriously.”

“I do, certainly, even when it’s hard. And it’s _very hard_ right now.”

Hawkeye looked at him - he could almost see the rage coming off him in waves, and Hawkeye was getting the sense that it wasn’t really directed at him.

“Sorry, Father,” he said. “You’ve got enough to handle without stopping me from roughing up the patients.”

“I understand, Hawkeye,” said Father Mulcahey. He seemed to deflate a bit. “You’d better go - I believe they’re waiting for you in the OR.”

“See you in there,” said Hawkeye.

  
  


Hawkeye fumbled his way into a set of scrubs, pulled on his cap, tied on his mask, and went to the scrub sink. He bent over it, hands clutching the sides, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. No one else was in the scrub room - everyone else must already be operating.

“Hawkeye?” said Margaret, pushing her way into the room. “Col. Potter sent me to check on you - are you all right?”

“Are you?” Hawkeye asked, staring down into the sink.

She took a deep breath. “Not really.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said. “The last time I operated on a wounded friend…” He bowed his head.

He didn’t look up at Margaret, but he heard her step closer.

“If you can operate in an aid station with shells falling all around you, you can do this,” she said. He heard the snap of gloves being removed and felt her hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles, and that, more than anything so far, let him relax.

“And if you can’t...you have two other capable surgeons to take over for you.” She rubbed his back for just a moment longer, then pulled away. “There, now we both need to scrub in,” she said, stripping off her used gown and stepping up to the other sink.

Hawkeye flipped on the faucet and started to scrub.

“Listen, Margaret,” he said, “I need you today.”

“Really, Pierce? Is this the time?” she said, lathering the soap in her hands.

“I didn’t mean--well, if you’re free later on…”

She glared at him.

“No, what I actually meant was, will you stick with me in surgery? I might be...distracted.”

She looked up at him with a small smile. “Of course, Hawkeye.”

  
  


The OR was quiet - absent of not only BJ’s banter with Hawkeye, but Charles’ rejoinders and Col. Potter’s stories from previous wars. Everyone was on edge: surgeons asking for the wrong instruments, nurses dropping things, orderlies bumping into things. Everything came to a head when Klinger backed into Nurse Baker, who was carrying three pints of blood, causing her to drop two of them and knock over an instrument table in an effort to catch herself.

“All right, people,” said Col. Potter, “I need everyone to stop what they’re doing and take a breath. Ready? Now.”

There was a collective inhale and exhale from the room.

“Good. Now, I know we’re all worried about Hunnicutt, but we can’t do the rest of those boys the disservice of giving them anything less than our best work. Now, Klinger, get that blood cleaned up. Baker, sterilize those instruments.”

“I was going to let you know, sir, that Cpt. Hunnicutt is up next. Nurse Kellye prepped him,” said Klinger, as he bent down to pick up the largest glass pieces.

“Bring him in, I’m ready,” said Hawkeye, stripping off his used gloves and gown, and gesturing to an orderly to take away his current patient.

“I’m finished here as well,” said Charles, stepping back from his table so his patient could be carted away.

An orderly wheeled BJ in, locking the wheels in place in front of Hawkeye. Hawkeye held his hands out for gloves and Nurse Able pulled on one, then the other.

“So, come here often?” said Hawkeye. BJ’s face was shiny with sweat, and his hair was damp with it.

“Now and then, but I’m getting a new perspective on the place,” BJ replied. He was so pale. _Oh God, Beej…_

“I’d say it grows on you, but that’s probably just the mold,” said Hawkeye. 

_I can’t do this._

“A rotten something in Korea’s steak,” said BJ. 

_Erin, Peg, I’m sorry._

“Pierce, are you going to put him under or continue the Hunnicutt variety hour?” said Potter. 

“Right,” said Hawkeye, trying to pull himself together. He gestured to the anesthesiologist. “Goodnight, sweet prince,” he said to BJ with a little wave.

 _And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, because Hamlet’s_ dead _when Horatio says that line. What’s the matter with you?_

“Wait,” said BJ, and the anaesthesiologist pulled the mask back. He fixed Hawkeye with an intense stare. “If I don’t wake up, there are some letters I need you to send. They’re in my foot locker.”

Hawkeye stared at BJ, speechless, fear twining its way around his chest like barbed wire.

BJ exhaled, a half-laugh. “Finally, I get to have the last word.” He tilted his head back to look at the anaesthesiologist. “Go ahead.”

Hawkeye barely registered the orderly wheeling another gurney with another patient over to Charles. BJ took a few deep breaths and his eyes flickered shut.

“He’s out,” said the anesthesiologist.

Hawkeye felt his heart thumping wildly. He stared down at BJ’s wound - as soon as he pulled out that gauze, BJ would start losing blood, fast.

 _You know what to do,_ he told himself. _Do it. You’ve done it hundreds of times._

But he stood, frozen, staring down at BJ. His hands were trembling. He clenched them into fists.

“Are you all right?” said Margaret, next to him.

“Of course. Great. Never better. I always wanted to see my best friend’s insides. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine.” His breathing was too fast. He had to calm down. “Of course, I don’t think this is what the poets mean when they talk about seeing someone’s heart, but I’ve never thought of the heart as a particularly romantic organ. It’s just a pump, no more romantic than a generator. The lungs, though, that’s where things get interesting for me.” He was losing control of his mouth entirely, words streaming out as he thought them, before he thought them.

“Hawkeye,” said Margaret softly, “Look at me.”

He looked down into her gray eyes - all he could see of her face between her mask and her cap.

“Do you need to swap patients with Charles?”

Hawkeye squeezed his eyes shut, one hand gripping the opposite fist, trying to breathe, trying to think. After a moment opened his eyes and nodded sharply.

“Charles,” said Hawkeye. “Switch patients with me.” Margaret started to follow him and he shook his head at her. _Stay with BJ._

Charles looked up from his patient. “I, ah, don’t know if that’s wise, Pierce.”

Hawkeye stepped back from the gurney where BJ was lying and made his way over to Charles. “I’m emotionally compromised. I’d be better off looking after a different...”

He trailed off as he looked at the man on Charles’ table. 

He looked younger, lying unconscious on the gurney, but the face was the same one he’d come perilously close to striking in PreOp.

“Colonel,” said Hawkeye, whirling around, “What if I take over for you instead?”

“No dice. I’m in the middle of a tricky bit, here - can’t leave him. One or the other, Pierce. Make your choice.”

Hawkeye turned back to Charles.

“Well, Pierce?” said Charles, more gently than usual.

Hawkeye hesitated for a second that seemed an eternity.

“You take BJ. I’ve got this one.”

“Are you sure, Hawkeye?” asked Father Mulcahey, as Charles went over to BJ without a word.

“Well, Father, you said there’s no point trying to harm him, so I might as well try to save him.”

Father Mulcahey shook his head. “Sometimes, Hawkeye, I believe you’re more forgiving than I am.”

“We can’t all be perfect, Father.”

Father Mulcahey’s cheeks lifted, and Hawkeye was sure he was smiling under his mask.

Hawkeye took a deep breath. “Scalpel,” he said, holding out his hand.


	4. Chapter 4

BJ slid in and out of consciousness. He was dimly aware of Kellye taking his blood pressure and asking him to wiggle his toes, of shivering and having another blanket draped over him, of Nurse Able asking him questions (were they questions? The words sounded like nonsense. Maybe she was speaking Korean. Maybe he should learn Korean. Why did his belly hurt so much?).

When he finally woke up fully, Hawkeye was sitting in a chair next to his bed, drinking a cup of coffee, his mask dangling around his neck, dressed in his scrubs with blood smeared on the front. He looked exhausted, but managed a grin when he noticed BJ was awake.

“Hey, good morning, sleepyhead.”

“You look terrible,” said BJ. He stared around. Why was he lying in PostOp? Pain was radiating from his abdomen, making it hard to think.

“ _I_ look terrible? You should see yourself.” Hawkeye took a swig of coffee and set the mug down. “How are you doing? You in much pain?”

“Some.” He closed his eyes for a moment. A wave of nausea washed over him.

“By which you mean, ‘it’s excruciating’. You don’t have to play tough with me, Beej.” He flagged down Nurse Baker to ask her for morphine.

“I wasn’t...what happened?” BJ fought against the rising nausea. He _wasn’t_ going to throw up, not in here, not with everyone around. “We were in triage, and...did I get shot?” His brain felt muddled, slow, disorganized, like a library where someone had dumped all the books off the shelves. He pressed a hand to the painful spot in his belly, trying to feel the extent of the damage, but Hawkeye grabbed his wrist to stop him.

“Leave it alone, Beej. And yeah, one of the students in the North Korean exchange program took it upon himself to perforate your abdomen.”

At Hawkeye’s words, a flood of memories rushed back - 

_...He was lying in Pre-Op, watching someone else’s blood snaking from the pint hanging above his head down into his arm. Or maybe it was his own blood - he’d given blood a week ago, hadn’t he? Too bad he couldn’t thank his past self for the donation…_

_...Kellye was moving along the row of stretchers, checking blood pressures and pulses, but also holding each patient’s hand for a moment before moving on. He’d admired her compassion before, but as she took his hand and asked him how he was feeling, the comfort of it settled over him like a blanket, and he thought of Peg sponging his brow when he’d caught the flu…_

_...Someone was wheeling him along the hallway...The door to the OR was pushed open and the bright light shone in his eyes and he was wheeled into place and saw Hawkeye looking down at him, looking as terrified as he felt..._

_...He was staring down the dark hole at the end of the gun, stunned into motionlessness, the hole seeming to grow larger and larger until it could swallow him, as if it was a living thing, hungry, looking to kill…_

The nausea was clawing its way up his throat, and it was going to happen whether he liked it or not--

He tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan, clutching his belly.

“Hey, don’t--” said Haweye.

“Gotta throw up,” BJ interrupted him, still trying to hold it back.

Hawkeye grabbed a bucket sitting next to the bed and plunked it between BJ’s knees, then slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position. “Go ahead, it’s okay.”

BJ had always hated vomiting (not that he thought anyone enjoyed it), but as much as the physical aspect was unpleasant, he found it embarrassing, and the idea of it happening with other people around, watching, was almost worse than the vomiting itself.

However, as soon as his stomach heaved, pain tore through his wound, and he soon wasn’t aware of much other than the bile falling from his mouth into the bucket and feeling as though he was being stabbed every time his stomach tried to empty itself again, even though there hadn’t been much to come up in the first place - he hadn’t eaten since last night. He dimly heard Hawkeye making sympathetic noises as he coughed and retched and groaned and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

At last it was over, the nausea receding, and he was left gasping, clutching his belly as the pain throbbed through his wound.

“It’s all right, it’s just the anaesthetic,” said Hawkeye. Still supporting BJ with one arm, he squeezed BJ’s shoulder with his free hand. Margaret had appeared as well, bending over him with a look of concern as she sponged sweat, tears, and vomit from his face.

“Are you done?” Hawkeye asked.

BJ spit into the bucket and nodded. Margaret handed him a glass of water; he rinsed his mouth and spit again, and Hawkeye lowered him carefully to lie on his back. Baker appeared with a syringe of morphine, and she injected it into BJ’s IV, then took the bucket outside to dump it. Hawkeye pulled back BJ’s shirt to look at the dressing, making sure he hadn’t torn any stitches. 

“So,” said BJ, feeling grateful and embarrassed at the same time, wanting to talk about something normal (as normal as it could get in these circumstances), “how’d my operation go? Smoothly as always?” 

“Uh,” said Hawkeye, turning red, “I heard it went well.”

“You heard? What, did you do it blindfolded?”

“I, uh…”

“You’ll have to ask Charles how the operation went,” said Margaret. “He’s the one who performed it.”

“Charles?” said BJ, looking from her to Hawkeye, “I may be wrong, Hawk, but I seem to remember staring deeply into your eyes as I lost consciousness. What happened?”

“I...asked Charles to switch with me,” said Hawkeye.

“Oh, I see,” said BJ. “My insides weren’t good enough for you. You needed something fancier.” He felt the pain receding as the morphine started to take effect, but his thoughts started to feel fuzzy.

“That’s not--” Hawkeye stopped abruptly and frowned, a line appearing between his eyebrows. He swallowed and looked away.

“I’m joking, Hawkeye,” said BJ, concerned. “It’s okay if you couldn’t operate on me. I don’t know if I could operate on you. It’d be like operating on my brother.”

“It’s not just that,” said Hawkeye, rubbing a thumb against the opposite palm, still not looking at BJ. “The guy I operated on instead was the one who shot you.”

BJ swallowed. “Is he...in here?” he asked, trying (and no doubt failing) to sound casual.

“Yeah, he’s there,” said Hawkeye, pointing to a bed across the aisle and a couple beds down from BJ’s. “Don’t worry, he’s still unconscious, he’s strapped to the bed, and we made sure the pajamas we issued him didn’t come with any firearms.”

BJ felt a shiver of fear, being in the same room with the man who’d shot him, but he couldn’t ask to move back to the Swamp and make extra work for the nurses…

Almost in spite of himself, in spite of everything, he felt his eyelids drooping.

“Hey, why don’t you get some rest?” said Hawkeye, patting him on the shoulder. “You scared me today. Scared Margaret, too, though I doubt she’ll admit it.”

“Of course I was scared,” said Margaret, offended. “I’m not a machine.”

“Wait,” said BJ, struggling to remain conscious, “I need to write to Peg. I promised to write her every day.”

“Fair enough,” said Margaret, handing him a pad of paper and a pen. “But after you’re done, get some sleep, all right?” 

  
  


A few minutes later, Hawkeye took the paper and pen from BJ’s unresisting hands. A trail of ink down the page marked the place where he’d finally fallen asleep. Margaret had moved on to care for the next patient - she had to, there was never enough time for any single patient when you had to care for them all. Hawkeye would have to make his rounds soon, but first he looked at what BJ had written.

  
  


_Dear Peggy,_

  
  


_I love you. Do I say it enough? I love you. I love the backs of your knees. Sometimes I think about kissing the backs of your knees. If I see them peeking out from the hem of your skirt, it makes me want to tear all your clothes off. I don’t know if I’ve told you this before. Do you ever wonder why we sleep? I’m a doctor, but I don’t know. They told us in medical school no one knows why! Isn’t that strange? Things are blue here. I mean the color, not the feeling. There aren’t as many birds as I thought there would be. I’d say I wish you were here, but then you’d be here and I’d be there and did I say I love you? I lov_

  
  


The words stopped there with a scrawl. Hawkeye covered his mouth to keep from laughing. He flipped to the next page of the pad and started writing another letter.

  
  


_Dear Peg,_

  
  


_This is Benjamin Franklin Pierce, better known as Hawkeye. BJ may have mentioned me in his letters - I’m one of his bunkmates and fellow surgeons here at the hospital. BJ insisted on writing you today, but he’s on a lot of painkillers, so I thought his adorable and hilarious letter might require some explanation (unless that’s how his letters always sound, in which case I’m sorry)._

_First off, he’s been hurt, but he’s going to be fine (I should know, I’m a doctor). Turns out, if you’re going to be wounded, the best place for it to happen is right outside a hospital._

_I don’t know how much BJ would tell you, but if someone I cared about was hurt I’d rather have the details, so I’ll give it to you straight: one of the wounded we treated today was a North Korean who wasn’t quite as disarmed as we thought. BJ was shot through the abdomen, and the bullet damaged some intestine. Charles Winchester, our other roomie and fellow surgeon, removed the damaged section of the intestine and sewed the two ends together. The surgery went smoothly, and if his recovery goes well he should be up and about again in two or three weeks._

_I know he thinks about you and Erin all the time (and I should know because he never shuts up about you two), and he’s looking forward to seeing you again. I only wish it could be sooner._

  
  


_Hopefully I’ll meet you in person one day,_

  
  


_Hawkeye_

  
  


He tore both sheets off the pad and tucked them in his pocket - he’d get the address from one of the envelopes in the stack by BJ’s bed.

“Sleep well, Beej,” he said softly, and got up from his chair to start his rounds.

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

BJ woke, gasping, in an icy sweat, from a dream in which a masked, laughing figure was pointing a gun at Peg and Erin while he lay on the ground, unable to move. Father Mulcahey and Kellye were standing over his bed, and he shook his head, trying to escape the fragments of the dream clinging to his mind. He looked quickly at the bed where the man who shot him lay, and sighed in relief when he saw him lying, asleep, still strapped to the bed.

“Are you all right, BJ?” said Father Mulcahey as Kellye sat down next to him and laid her hand on his forehead.

“I’m fine,” said BJ, “It’s fine, Kellye, you don’t need to--” he tried to wave her off, but she stayed where she was.

“I’m just making sure you don’t have a fever. Here,” she said, putting a thermometer in his mouth.

He sighed through his nose in annoyance as Father Mulcahey took a seat on his other side. Kellye left to go over to another patient, who was moaning slightly in his sleep.

“Are you sure you’re all right, BJ?” asked Father Mulcahey.

BJ nodded, a little sullenly (though how he was supposed to look other than sullen with a thermometer in his mouth was beyond him). He was being unreasonable, he knew, but he already felt trapped in his bed and the thermometer under his tongue added to his discomfort.

It was dark outside - no light came in through the windows of Post-Op. Most of the other beds were full from yesterday’s session. He heard the crunch of boots outside as the man on guard duty marched past. Charles was sitting at the desk, glancing over sheets of paperwork. BJ looked up at the clock - it was almost three-thirty in the morning. He glanced at Father Mulcahey, who was staring into the middle distance, looking pale.

At last, Kellye came back to take the thermometer. She held it up to the light, then wrote something down on the chart hanging at the end of the bed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Ninety-seven point nine. No fever.” She smiled at him and moved on.

BJ turned his head to look at Father Mulcahey again. “What brings you here, Father?”

Father Mulcahey blinked, coming out of his reverie. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d see if I could be of use to anyone.”

“Well, since you’re here,” said BJ, “can you hand me my chart?”

Father Mulcahey glanced at Charles, who was still absorbed in his work, and took BJ’s chart from its hook.

“Here you are,” he said, handing it to BJ. BJ scanned it.

“Blood pressure slightly elevated,” he muttered. “One unit of whole blood, one of plasma.”

“Everything look normal?” Father Mulcahey asked.

“As normal as could be expected,” said BJ. “Could you put this back for me?”

Father Mulcahey returned the chart to the hook.

“How about you, Father? You look a little peaky.”

“Making diagnoses while lying in a hospital bed?”

“I need to occupy my time somehow. I’m serious, though - do you feel sick?”

“No, nothing like that. I’ve just had terrible nightmares whenever I close my eyes.”

“You’re not the only one. I wish I could go back to the Swamp, I don’t like being here with-- I mean, I don’t like sleeping here. But if I did, Hawkeye would worry about me and then _he_ wouldn’t sleep, and then we’d have two useless surgeons.” He caught Father Mulcahey’s gaze straying down to the wound in BJ’s belly, and the frown line appearing between his eyebrows.

“Father, you’re not still blaming yourself for this, are you?” BJ asked him, gesturing to his wound.

Father Mulcahey leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hand. “I...I keep going over it in my mind - whether there was anything else I could have done. Maybe if I came from a different direction, or was paying closer attention, or--” he stopped abruptly, looking away.

“Hey,” said BJ, laying his hand on Father Mulcahey’s shoulder. “Listen, I wouldn’t still be here, if it wasn’t for you. A point blank shot to the head? There’s no way I’d have come through that. You saved my life. I’ll be walking around in a few weeks because of you.”

Father Mulcahey turned back to BJ. “I’ve never seen someone shot before. I see the aftereffects all the time, of course, but I’ve never seen it happen, much less to a friend.” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry, BJ, I shouldn’t be burdening you with all this in your condition.”

“I don’t mind. Helps me get my mind off whatever the hell I was doing, standing there staring stupidly at the gun pointed at my face.” He shook his head. “There was plenty of time to duck, or knock his arm away, but I just _froze._ I don’t know what happened. And if I’d died, Peg would--” An image of Peg getting the telegram that he’d been killed bloomed before his eyes, her expression clouding from confusion to grief, and a choked sob burst from his throat. He covered his eyes as a torrent of emotion overtook him - anger, fear, relief, sadness came pouring out in a flood. It hurt his wound to cry this way, but the sheer unfairness of the pain only made him sob harder. Father Mulcahey took his hand and held it in both of his, murmuring reassurances.

Finally, BJ’s sobs subsided, and he wiped his face with the hand Father Mulcahey wasn’t holding.

“Thanks, Father,” he said.

“Of course, BJ,” Father Mulcahey replied, giving BJ’s hand a final squeeze and releasing him.

“Father...I’d take that blessing now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Father Mulcahey gave a small smile.

“Of course.” He laid his hand on BJ’s head.

“ _In nomine Patri et Filii et Spiritu Sancti…”_


	6. Chapter 6

By his third day in Post-Op, BJ felt like he might go insane if he spent another night there. Hawkeye visited whenever he could (BJ had to convince him to go back to the Swamp after he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation), and he spent most of his shifts there sitting by BJ’s bed. Margaret and Col. Potter made frequent appearances as well, Margaret knitting...something as she spoke to him and Col. Potter entertaining (and sometimes boring) him with anecdotes. Even Charles stopped by a handful of times, at one point giving him a small jar of pate and a box of crackers he’d received from home, which, for Charles, was like handing BJ the deed to his summer home. Klinger, Radar, and Father Mulcahey dropped by as well, adding small gifts to the growing pile next to his bed. 

He was grateful to all of them, but all of them had duties to attend to, and they all tended to sleep at night (or try to), and when it was dark and quiet in the ward and the only sounds were the nurses softly moving from one patient to the next or someone someone snoring softly or sometimes weeping in their sleep, the night seemed to press against him, to settle on his chest like a tiger, and he fought to catch his breath against it.

He hadn’t slept well the past couple nights - first because the morphine gave him strange and unsettling dreams it was hard to wake from, then, when he started refusing morphine on the second day after his surgery, the relentless ache had made it hard to settle his mind into the soft pattern he needed for sleep. And, of course, there was always the dread of the man across the room lying strapped to his bed.

The dread he felt toward this man confused and frustrated him - it wasn’t as though the man had a weapon or was in any position to find one. There was no way the man could harm him again, and he didn’t seem to want to - when they took off his restraints to allow him to use the latrine, he trudged there and back without any sort of resistance. And when he returned, he submitted to being strapped in again without complaint. But still, BJ felt a trickle of fear whenever he happened to catch sight of him

Charles gave him the go-ahead to walk to the latrine on his own, and BJ was a little surprised at how overjoyed he was at the prospect. He left Post-Op, slowly, Hawkeye hovering around him like a sheepdog worrying a sheep, each step sending a wave of pain through his belly, but when he stepped outside he stopped for a moment just to feel the sun on his face (not filtered in through the dusty windows in Post-Op) and breathe in the relatively fresh air.

“You all right, Beej?” said Hawkeye, anxious next to him.

“Yeah,” said BJ, coming out of a reverie, “Just nice to be outside.”

They made their way across the compound without issue, but on the way back BJ was annoyed to find himself panting with the effort to keep walking. It wasn’t just the pain, though that was there in spades - he was just so _tired_.

“Want some help?” said Hawkeye, trying to take his arm, but BJ waved him off.

“I’ll make it,” he gasped. “Slowly. But I’ll make it.”

One slow step at a time, he did make it all the way back to the doors of Post-Op. But as he reached out to push them open, a sense of dread came over him once more, and he turned around to lean against the wall instead.

“What is it?” Hawkeye asked.

“What if I went back to the Swamp instead? I’m recovering fine so far.”

Hawkeye frowned. “You’ve only been out of surgery three days.”

“I know, but it’s not like I’ll be doing anything more strenuous there than lying in Post-Op.” He raised a hand to wipe sweat from his forehead.

“Look, do you want me to get you Peg’s letters? Or a flask of gin? We could tell the other patients it’s a new type of medicine.”

BJ gave a swift exhale of a laugh at that, then groaned and clutched his belly. His legs felt loose and watery, like a puppet trying to stand on its own after the puppeteer dropped the strings.

“Come on,” said Hawkeye, ducking under his arm. BJ no longer had the energy to shake him off. “Let’s get you back inside.”

“No,” BJ gasped, panting. “I don’t--want--”

“You need to lie down, Beej. I’m pretty sure I’m supporting most of your weight, and I took an oath never to lift anything heavier than a martini.”

“Don’t--don’t take me back in there,” BJ said.

“Okay,” said Hawkeye slowly, a different kind of concern in his voice. “How about a compromise? We’ll get you a wheelchair, and you can tell me why you don’t want to go back to Post-Op. Deal?”

Reluctant as he was to discuss his strange and irrational fears with Hawkeye, he was more reluctant to collapse in the dirt outside of Post-Op, which was growing more and more likely the longer he tried to stay upright. He nodded.

“Corpsman!” Hawkeye shouted.

  
  


“So, that’s all? You don’t want to stay in Post-Op anymore because you’re sharing it with the guy who shot you?”

“That sums it up, yes.”

“Beej, we get North Koreans through here all the time who’ve been shot by one of the other guys in the ward. Or the other way around. He’s strapped down, and he doesn’t have access to weapons anyway.”

“I know, I know, I know, it’s-- I--” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “It doesn’t make sense.”

Hawkeye was wheeling BJ through the compound, the grit crunching under the wheels of the chair. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“So talk to me,” Hawkeye said. “Tell me about it.”

BJ sighed. “I’m having a hard time sleeping in there. I keep having nightmares. The morphine made them worse, but…”

“You think they’d get better if you were sleeping in the Swamp?”

‘I don’t know. I just feel like he’s watching me, even though I know he’s not.”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Sure, I just finished up my Korean correspondence course.”

“There are enough Koreans around, I’m sure one of them would translate for you. You might have to pay them, but…”

  
  


“No. I do laundry, not talking to enemy soldier.”

“Come on, Ji-yoo,” said Hawkeye, “it's important. We’ll give you five dollars.”

“Important is finish laundry job on time, so GI hire again tomorrow.”

“Ten dollars,” said BJ, from his wheelchair.

Ji-yoo pursed her lips, considering. “Fine,” she said at last. “But if Major underwear is not finish tomorrow, I tell her it is your fault.”

“Trust me, she’ll believe you,” said Hawkeye. “Here’s five dollars,” he said, handing over the money, “and you’ll get five more when you’re done.”

“Fine,” said Ji-yoo, taking the money and tucking it into her skirt pocket. “Where is soldier?”

They led her over to Post-Op, Hawkeye still wheeling BJ in the chair. Once inside, Hawkeye pushed BJ’s chair to the North Korean’s bedside, then stepped back to look at the chart hanging from the end of the bed, glancing up at BJ.

“Uh,” said BJ, “I wanted to talk to you, so Ji-you agreed to help me.”

Ji-yoo spoke in rapid-fire Korean. She didn’t sound particularly friendly, but BJ supposed he could hardly blame her - they were on opposite sides of a war, after all. The man looked from Ji-yoo to BJ but didn’t respond.

BJ wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs, trying to think of what to ask.

“What’s your name?” he said, unable to come up with anything else.

Ji-yoo translated the question. The man stared up at them, looking from one to the other.

After a moment’s pause, he responded, “Lee Kyung-soo.”

“I’m BJ Hunnicutt,” said BJ. Ji-yoo translated this as well. His right hand jumped forward to shake Kyung-soo’s hand, but he remembered halfway through that a handshake wasn’t the correct greeting here, so he retracted it quickly. Everything seemed extremely vivid and surreal, and he imagines telling himself from two years ago about this conversation.

“So...Lee-san,” BJ started.

“ _Ai cham!_ ” said Ji-yoo, “ _-san_ is _Japanese_! You think you are in Japan, BJ- _san?_ ”

“Sorry,” said BJ. “Is there...how should I address him?”

“Call him Kyung-soo. Good enough for American. He know you are not Korean.”

“Okay, Kyung-soo...why did you shoot me?” He’d meant to ask it less directly, meant to lead up to the question, but it had been burning inside him for three days and two sleepless nights, and it tumbled out of his mouth without warning. Hawkeye looked up at them, not even bothering with pretending to read Kyung-soo’s chart anymore.

Ji-yoo stared at BJ, then turned to Kyung-soo to relay the question.

Kyung-soo didn’t answer immediately. He lay back on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. When he spoke, it was soft, addressing no one in particular. Ji-yoo had to lean closer to hear him.

“He say he is scared. Does not know where Americans take him. He want to kill officer, to be shot instead of go to prison camp.”

“How could he tell I was an officer?”

“He say you give orders to others.”

Kyung-soo looked over at BJ, then back at the ceiling. He started to speak again.

“He say he is sorry. He does not want to shoot doctor. His father is doctor.”

“Tell him...tell him I forgive him. And tell him not to worry - American POW camps aren’t too bad, from what I’ve heard.”

Ji-yoo translated this, and a small smile played around Kyung-soo’s lips.

“Ask him if he’ll cause any trouble if we unstrap him.”

A pause while Ji-yoo translated, then, “He promise not to cause trouble.”

“Hawkeye?” said BJ.

Hawkeye bent over the man, his hands on the restraints.

“You sure, Beej?”

BJ nodded. Hawkeye unbuckled the strap.

Kyung-soo propped himself up on his elbows and gave the best bow he could from that position to BJ. BJ, surprised, awkwardly ducked his head in response.

“Thank you, Ji-yoo,” said BJ. Hawkeye pulled out another five dollars and handed it to her. She counted the money, nodded, and left.

“All right, driver,” BJ said to Hawkeye, “wheel me back. I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day.” He felt a lot of the tension that had been keeping him on edge draining out of him, and suddenly it was a struggle to stay awake.

Hawkeye wheeled him over to his bed and helped him into it, then sat down next to him.

“I think I’m going to call Sidney,” said Hawkeye. “I think we could both use a chat with him. Maybe Father Mulcahey could, too.”

“Sounds good to me,” said BJ.

“Are you going to take a nap now, or do I need to read you a bedtime story?”

“I need to write to Peg again,” BJ said, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“I think you need to get some sleep,” said Hawkeye. “Look, if I write to her on your behalf, will you take a nap?”

“Deal,” said BJ, and he let his head loll to the side.

  
  


Hawkeye heard BJ start snoring almost immediately, and he smiled. Picking up a pen and paper from the table between the beds, he started a new letter.

_Dear Peg,_

_It’s Hawkeye again. I made a deal with BJ - if he’d agree to take a nap, I’d write to you for him. He’s really doing well, even better than I expected. He’s able to walk short distances already. Also, he managed to make friends with the North Korean soldier who shot him, and if that’s not the most BJ thing I’ve ever heard..._

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from two sources - first, someone on the M*A*S*H subreddit said that the reason Hawkeye never had to operate on BJ (or vice versa) was that the writers received so many spec scripts with that premise they were afraid of being sued by any or all of them if they ever used it, so I wanted to explore what would happen if one were injured.
> 
> Second, there's this quote:  
> "We had enemies in the MASH compound as patients, too." Secor explained. "I always kept my cap turned up to hide my captain's bars. One time a North Korean managed to keep a pistol hidden until he was in surgery. When he was in post op, I asked him what he intended to do with the pistol. He said that he had planned to shoot the first officer he saw. Because I had the habit of hiding my rank insignia from other officers by turning my cap bill up, that probably saved my life because he could not see it."
> 
> It's from this site: http://www.koreanwar-educator.org/memoirs/secor_harold/index.htm#LifeMash
> 
> According to the site, Dr. Harold Secor was one of the surgeons at the 8055th MASH in the Korean war, where he eventually met Dr. Richard Hornberger, who would later write the original M*A*S*H novel. It's an interesting read, and you can see the plot from several M*A*S*H episodes as they happened in real life.


End file.
